


Gossip and Rumours

by umbrafix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jakes misinterprets an overheard conversation between Thursday and Morse, and has a reaction based on his past. Or: another way Morse might have lost his position as Thursday’s bagman when Bright arrived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gossip and Rumours

**Author's Note:**

> AU for the beginning of Season 1, ignoring any of the actual plot of episode 1.
> 
> Warnings: Reaction of a character to thinking sexual assault has taken place on someone else (even though it hasn't - potentially distressing subject matter nonetheless). Oblique references to Jake’s past.

“Don’t think you can hide from me, lad,” DI Thursday’s terse voice came from around the corner as Jakes walked into the locker room.

 

He stopped in his tracks for a moment before realising that the inspector couldn’t possibly have seen him; Thursday must have been talking to someone else. Jakes hadn’t thought anyone was even still here this late – he’d been the last in the office. And now his locker was across on the other side of the room, and he wasn’t sure if it was worth interrupting what sounded like a proper dressing down.

 

Fuck it, he wanted to grab his things and head home. It had been a long Wednesday. Maybe if he was quiet they’d ignore him.

 

He cautiously rounded the corner in time to hear Morse’s stubborn tones. “No, sir, I just don’t think-“

 

“Stop being awkward about this, Morse.” Jakes could just see them along the side of the row of lockers now, Thursday crowding Morse against the wall with one hand on his shoulder. Jakes stopped abruptly before they noticed him, suddenly not wishing to be seen at all.

 

Even seen side on, Morse’s body language was screaming discomfort. “But I don’t-“

 

“You’re my bagman, Morse, this is how it’s going to be.” Thursday’s tone was gentle, and his hand moved to tug at the front of Morse’s shirt. “No point kicking up a fuss.”

 

Jakes froze, barely breathing.

 

“But-“

 

“Take it off, Morse. _Now_ ,” Thursday stressed more irritably, and Jakes felt the world turn a little grey around him. Bloody hell. Bloody  _fucking_  hell.

 

Morse’s profile was half in shadow, but Jakes could make out the unease on his features. He saw Morse slowly reach for his shirt collar, was transfixed as buttons were undone one by one, and then hastily turned away to the rustle of fabric and Thursday saying “Let’s have a look at you, then.” His feet had carried him out of the door in seconds, a dim roaring noise filling his ears, with no conscious choice on his part.

 

It was only when he was leaning against the wall outside, half doubled over and scrabbling for his cigarettes, that he realised he could have helped. Could have said something; banged a locker even, to scare Thursday off.

 

Instead he’d just run, like a coward.

 

He lit the cigarette with shaking hands, and didn’t go back inside.

 

He’d chain smoked three of them - fingers still trembling, starting new ones before the last were half finished - when the door just down from him creaked open. He started as though it had been a gunshot, and dropped his smoke. “Christ,” he swore.

 

It was Thursday, with Morse trailing along behind him. Morse’s shirt was untucked under his hastily thrown on jacket, his hair dishevelled and his face pale and drawn. And to think Jakes had been riding him for getting the position as Thursday’s bagman, had been giving him grief.

 

Jesus.

 

“Ah, Jakes.” Thursday’s voice was congenial, no sign of what had just taken place. “Fancy joining us in the pub?”

 

Jakes opened his mouth to refuse, because fuck no, but then his gaze flicked to Morse. “You going?” he asked gruffly, and Morse gave a confused nod. Jesus, he couldn’t leave the lad alone with Thursday, not after that. “Alright, I’ll come for one.”

 

They walked to the pub just round the corner, The Brown Mare, and stood at the bar while their DI ordered a round. Jakes couldn’t stop noticing how stiffly Morse moved, how white he was.

 

I could have stopped that, he thought, but I didn’t.

 

Thursday was still jovial once they sat down, carrying the conversation since Morse was uncharacteristically quiet and Jakes only replied when asked a direct question. “Right lot of fun you two are,” he complained, putting down his empty glass. “Back in a tick.”

 

Jakes hadn’t been more than sipping at his lager; now he downed half of it at once.  Thursday was all the way across the room already, disappearing through the door to the gents. Jakes cleared his throat. Swallowed. Cleared it again. Tapped his fingers against the table. Glanced away.

 

Fuck.

 

“Are you - that is… I saw. In the locker room.” He paused and licked his lips, unable to look at Morse, heart pounding loudly against his ribcage. “I… Are you alright?”

 

He thought Morse wasn’t going to respond for a minute – they weren’t exactly on the friendliest of terms, and this was a hell of a thing – but then out of the corner of his eye he saw him shift. Jakes glanced up to meet eyes too large and wary in a face too pinched and strained. Morse gave him a tight almost-smile, but his expression was closed off.  “Bit sore,” he offered finally, and Jesus.  _Jesus._

“Sorry,” Jakes’ mouth said, running on automatic, and he pulled out his cigarettes again to have something to do with his hands. He saw movement coming their way a moment later. “You should be off home,” he muttered quickly. “Don’t stay.”

 

Morse’s gaze this time was puzzled, obviously taken aback by his concern, and what kind of a bastard did he think Jakes was?

 

Thursday was with them a moment later. “Another?” Morse shook his head, and Jakes said he’d better be going home. “Fair enough. Get some rest, both of you, it’s been a long week already.” He reached out to lay a quick hand on Morse’s arm as he passed, and Jakes squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could unsee it all.

 

\--------------

 

He didn’t make it further than the bar, in the end, where he proceeded to get absolutely plastered. On waking with a throbbing head the next morning he couldn’t remember much more of the evening - except for a cold certainty that he’d said more than he should have, and that there had been plenty of others from the station out at their local.

 

Fallout came swiftly; he was called into Bright’s office before ten. The chief super was jittery, brow drawn with anxiety, and he stayed standing after gesturing for Jakes to sit.

 

“What’s all this I hear? Gossip and rumours about Inspector Thursday, and I’m told you’re behind it? I may not have held this position long, but I won’t tolerate such things. Explain yourself.”

 

Blood roared in Jakes’ ears. Deny everything? It would probably be the end of Jakes’ career if he admitted he’d blabbed about a senior officer, no matter what Thursday had been doing. Bright had only been here for a week, but already had a reputation around the station as an unsympathetic sort – a political animal who only wanted to bow and scrape to the rich and powerful. He had no reason to care about Jakes, and Jakes had no reason to trust him.

 

Denial then. That was the safest thing to do. That was what he’d done last night though, the safest thing for himself, and look where it had gotten Morse. Shit.

 

Haltingly, feeling like he might throw up at any moment, Jakes explained what he’d seen and heard the night before. What Morse had said, in the pub. Apologised for speaking out of turn last night, but said he’d felt so sickened he wasn’t in his right mind when he’d shared it. Said he knew he should have come straight to Bright.

 

The chief super’s face had grown more and more grave as Jakes talked, his restless twitches stilling until all the energy seemed to have drained out of him. He sank into the chair behind his desk, and looked very old.

 

“I see,” he murmured once Jakes had finished. “I did wonder – it seemed strange he was so insistent on having a constable as his bagman. But this is…” He quietened, seeming to remember Jakes’ presence. “Yes, well, thank you, Jakes. I will see to things. Dismissed!”

 

Jakes left hurriedly, going back to his desk to bury himself in paperwork. Assault, drunk and disorderly, joyriding, assault… Normally he’d have palmed some of it off on Morse, but a look at the tense shoulders and lowered head at the desk in the corner was enough to make him feel ill this morning.

 

It wasn’t long before Thursday was summoned to Bright’s office, and Jakes’ head followed his progress across the room along with another six interested sets of eyes. Not five minutes later there was the sound of raised voices from within.

 

Jakes couldn’t believe he’d said anything about it last night; not for Thursday’s sake but for Morse’s. Now everyone would know. Was there anyone left in the station who hadn’t already heard that one of the detective inspectors was buggering his wide-eyed young bagman? How the hell had Bright found out so quickly, anyway?

 

Thursday emerged a few minutes later with a face like thunder, and a tone to match. “Morse,” his voice cracked across the room. “Bright’s office.  _Now_.”

 

Morse seemed completely ignorant as to what was going on – obviously the two of them had been avoided as the gossip was making the rounds in the morning. He stood wearily; Jakes saw the stiffness of his movements again, and winced in empathy.

 

“Sir?” Morse asked, but Thursday clearly wasn’t in the mood.  He pointed at Bright’s door, and strode towards his own office, aggravation and offence streaming from every pore.

 

Jakes kept his head down as Morse glanced around the room, and then slowly made his way to Bright’s office. The door shut softly behind him, and there was the sound of seven people letting out the breath they’d been holding all at once. Jakes resented the presence of every one of those other six, even though he’d probably told some of them himself. What did they know, they hadn’t been _there_. The writing in front of him ceased to mean anything, and Jakes stared down at the desk with a head suffering from more than a hangover. He couldn’t stop  _thinking_.

 

It took longer for Morse to emerge than Thursday, or maybe it just seemed that way. He came out with his face ashen and his ears bright red, looking like he’d been told the world was round when he’d always believed it to be flat. He stayed with a hand on Bright’s doorknob for a moment, as though afraid of being washed out to sea if he let go, and then reluctantly released it and started towards his desk at a snail’s pace. Everyone in the office watched him, trying not to be obvious about it.

 

He stopped by Jakes’ desk, and Jakes held his breath.

 

“Could I talk to you for a moment?” Morse asked, with a subtle tilt of his head. Silently, Jakes got up and followed him into the empty locker room. He closed the door behind him and nudged the door wedge under it, so that you couldn’t open it from the other side.

 

Morse walked a few paces away from him, into the middle of the room, and then turned.  Jakes didn’t want to look at his face, almost couldn’t bear it. When he did, there wasn’t the shame he expected but a riot of emotions; so many all clustered together that Jakes couldn’t read him at all.  “Morse,” he managed, throat dry.

 

“You said – last night you said you saw me, in the locker room,” Morse began slowly. Jakes jerked his head in a nod. “You asked if I was alright?” And now there was understanding, revelation, same as the time Jakes had seen him solve a case out of thin air. Jakes nodded again.

 

Morse hesitated, and then his fingers went to his shirt, very slowly gathering it at the bottom. It was untucked again, had been since he came out of Bright’s office. Jakes’ eyes followed every movement of those long, graceful fingers as they bunched together shirt and vest, drawing it upwards, unable to guess at what Morse was doing. Showing him something Thursday had done to him?

 

He saw a shadow starting just below Morse’s bony ribcage, thought it a trick of the light for a moment until Morse pulled the fabric higher. It was a bruise, an ugly one, long and green and purple. Jakes winced; he could see how much pain it was causing Morse to lift his arms like that. “What?”

 

“Tire iron,” Morse said flatly. He dropped the shirt immediately, and had to pause for a moment to breathe through the pain. “Yesterday. Cartwright.”

 

That was right, Morse had been out interviewing all day – one of the arrest forms on Jakes’ desk had been an E. Cartright. “But-“

 

“I told Inspector Thursday I was fine. He didn’t believe me, of course; said I needed to be more careful. I could barely move by the end of the day and he insisted on having a look.” The words were factual, but his tone was miserable. On the next sentence Morse’s voice cracked. “I think he meant to be kind.”

 

Jakes searched Morse’s eyes, looking for any hint of deceit, of this just being an excuse. There was none, and in only a month he’d already learned Morse was a terrible liar.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed.

 

“Yes,” Morse agreed, and there was a hint of anger there now. He paused for a moment, seeming on the brink of saying more, and then pushed past Jakes on the way to the door.

 

Fragments of conversations from the day before played again in Jakes’ mind, reforming into a new configuration.

 

He sat down heavily on a bench, and didn’t move for a long time.

 

Thursday found him there. “My office, now.” Jakes shuffled after him. The door to Thursday’s office closed behind him with the finality of being sealed in a tomb, and he sat without being asked.

 

Thursday settled behind his desk, not even appearing angry anymore, just very, very tired.

 

“I don’t know what to do with you,” the DI said finally. “You couldn’t have gone about this more the wrong way if you tried.  _What were you thinking_ , getting drunk and telling-“ He cut himself off, breathing out hard through his nose. Every muscle Jakes owned was locked into a state of defensive tension. Thursday sighed. “On the other hand, you were doing it out of concern for Morse. He spoke to you?”

 

Jakes unfroze enough to nod. “Yes, sir. I’m s-“

 

“I don’t want to hear it,” Thursday snapped. “We’re in a right mess. If Bright denies it, it’ll be seen as a cover up, if he says nothing then it’s being swept under the carpet. If Morse stays my bagman, then undoubtedly it’s because I got my way and I’m still using him ill.  But if he’s reassigned that means the rumours are true. If he ever gets credit for any good work,  _ever,_ in the future, this will crop back up and it’ll be because of favouritism.” The DI shook his head in despair. “What the _hell_ are we supposed to do?”

 

“Show the bruise?” Jakes said without thinking.

 

“And have them say I gave it to him?”

 

“I could-“ Jakes started to suggest.

 

“No. No, you’ll stay out of it, unless Bright tells you otherwise.  _Christ_ , what a mess.”  Thursday pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then pointed at the door with his other hand.

 

Jakes left.

 

If he’d only gone into the locker room properly, he’d have seen there was nothing more to it. If he’d not got so stupid drunk that he couldn’t see straight, hadn’t spread it around, then if he’d talked to Bright it could have been sorted out easily enough. But not now, not with everyone knowing, or thinking they knew. DI Thursday was right; no one would believe the truth. And Thursday’s thought that Jakes had spilled anything, last night at least, out of concern for Morse was ludicrous. He’d done it for himself, because he couldn’t bear the weight. Now he would have to bear this instead. And so would Morse and Thursday.

 

By the end of the day it had been quietly put about that there was no truth to the allegations, and Jakes just shrugged and said sorry to any who asked. Thursday stopped him on his way out. “Pick me up in the morning at eight fifteen sharp. Morse’ll have my address.” The hollow anger in his words made Jakes want to lash out at someone; the only person left in the office was Morse though, working away industriously as usual in his corner, and the thought of taking it out on him made Jakes’ gut twist.

 

He went outside to have a smoke instead, and the rest of the pack was gone before he could convince himself to go home. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never really written Jakes before, so no idea if this works *shy shrug*


End file.
